


Shattered

by miasmatrix



Series: All The King's Horses [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Crime, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Murder, Overdosing, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1731302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Sherlock thought things would get a bit boring, a dead banker and a dysfunctional family derail John and Sherlock after their return to London. The case takes its toll on John, and even though Sherlock might be the most perceptive man in London, that doesn't mean he understands. And John - let's just say John isn't the most perceptive man in London, but he has an ace up his sleeve. Or in his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>(A bit dark, a bit sad, but of course, of course they'll get a happy ending. Guys. You know me, right?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of *those* stories, you know them, the ones you probably won't ever be totally satisfied with, but they went a certain way because your characters work a certain way. I've tried to figure out how Sherlock would react to a proposal, and I don't think he'd be an easy catch. Turns out he wasn't.
> 
> So, yes. The story is done and wants out, and here it is. I promise the next one will be a much happier one, and I thank everyone who bears with me.

It had been a mistake.

The thought hit Sherlock when he lay in bed, next to John, who had his back to him and pretended to sleep. Which confused Sherlock greatly - John knew Sherlock could tell when he wasn't actually asleep, so why pretend? He had to assume this was some way to express his wish for privacy. And so he lay next to John, not touching, and listened to John pretending to breathe evenly, feigning sleep. Overhead, the headlights of a car illuminated the ceiling briefly, and Sherlock wondered who had business here at this time of night.

"Here" was a tiny village in the middle of nowhere (Wales, to be precise), and "here" was also a cosy little B&B and a just another site to look for clues in a potential murder or a tragic suicide, depending on who you asked. Which had made coming here a mistake. With sleep far off and nothing else to do, Sherlock went over the day in his head.

Lestrade had sent them to Wales to investigate because the body had been cremated pretty quickly and because the potential victim had a friend who had a friend at Scotland Yard, and these friends found it unlikely that he'd Do Such A Thing. He'd been a city boy, and city boys died all the time, Sherlock thought. If people knew each other just a little better, they wouldn't say something that stupid, but he kept his opinion to himself when faced with the palpable, serene grief of the potential victim's wife. Elizabeth Dowell.

They had arrived here just in time for a sight Sherlock was very tempted to forget: A young woman burying her husband in the middle of a forest. Out of respect (and dread) they had hung back, Sherlock had made a mental map of everyone at the scene. A big group. He'd been popular. The Brownian motion of human interaction had thankfully separated them in clusters of family (his and hers, separate) and friends and neighbours and colleagues, making his job far easier as he had been able to identify her immediate family, an imposing brother (chef, the owner of a popular restaurant in London), a mousy, sunken father, and a mother who patrolled the grounds like a vicious dog and told everyone what she thought of a husband who left a girl alone, not even sparing the victim's family. Speaking of which: The late Mr. Dowell's family had arrived in great number, and the way the older members of her family avoided his spoke of perceived differences in class between the two families Sherlock had hoped long extinct.

For a while, with the case so clear, Sherlock had been so very bored that hanging himself from one of the ancient oak trees had sounded like a proper and more entertaining option. John had dealt with the obvious, the boring, had asked the obvious questions and had received the obvious answers from stricken family members and shocked colleagues. They never would have thought, they never would have suspected, he had been such a nice person. And on that day, no, nothing out of the ordinary, he'd seemed relaxed and fine. Just fine! Sherlock had looked past that, had seen the genuine distress in his manager. Inconclusive. And as nothing pointed to murder, he'd have to face the facts: That yet another banker had chosen to jump off the roof at work. (Why was it always at work, Sherlock thought, why never at home? There had to be a message in there somewhere.)

A most remarkable thing had happened after the burial, at the café, and as he replayed it in his head, Sherlock found himself fidgeting. Before coffee had been served, Mrs. Dowell been the centre of a slow-moving maelstrom of condolences and curiosity, had shaken hands and said thanks and yes and no and all of that just a little too late, as if she'd run on a different internal clock, but it had been very normal, very ordinary, as funerals went. He'd sneaked out for a smoke or two, making sure John didn't see, and he thought it attested to just how bored he was that he hadn't kept his promise.  
Until, well, until a petite young woman had stormed forward and thrown herself at the widow, bawling and lamenting. Sherlock identified her immediately as one of Mr. Dowell's colleagues, married (if the ring on her finger meant anything), dark-haired and very pretty. She'd cried and wailed and had hugged the widow tightly, unable to let go, as if she'd been the one who had lost her husband, and Mrs. Dowell had raised a hand as if in trance and had patted her back, as appalled and helpless as her presumed brother who had stepped close but couldn't do anything to tear the weeping woman off his sister. Mrs. Dowell had whispered comforting nonsense and her eyes had gone wide and her façade, so carefully maintained, had cracked, and briefly, Sherlock had wondered what might be worse than burying one's husband on a lovely summer day, and then, looking at John, he had understood. Burying him had been easier than accepting she might have already lost him before.

And that, Sherlock had thought, had been a fantastic motive for murder. He'd started to enjoy himself. He'd been that close to leaving the scene after coffee, but now... Now he lay awake next to John, who breathed and thought, and he knew this had been a mistake.

"John", he said. He didn't answer, and for a moment, he thought maybe he had been mistaken and John had been asleep, but then, saying his name would have woken him, wouldn't it? John not reacting to his name could only mean he pretended not to hear. Which made it rude to force himself on him, Sherlock suspected, but he couldn't help it. The day fresh in his head, nervous energy building up, he had to talk. He had to.  
  
"John?"  
  
"I'm sleeping."  
  
"Obviously."  
  
"Trying to."  
  
"Why don't you then?"  
  
"I can hear you think."  
  
"We've been over that before, John. You can't hear me think."  
  
"Your breathing frequency picks up."  
  
"No, it doesn't."  
  
"Yes, it does. You probably need more oxygen."  
  
"Unlikely. There's enough oxygen to power a brain in a resting body, even at baseline breathing."  
  
"Who's the doctor now, huh?"  
  
In lieu of an answer, Sherlock rolled on his side and slung an arm around John, nuzzling his hair.  
  
"Sherlock. Please. I'm not in the mood."  
  
Sherlock shrank back as if bitten by a usually very friendly dog. He hadn't even wanted to initiate anything, had just wanted to show some affection, had wanted some comfort, some contact, anything, because ever since they were together, he'd found he relied more and more on affection, craved it now, not necessarily the sex, though that was great, but just holding someone and being held, that had become so important - too important maybe, and he-  
  
"Oi. You. Stop it." John did turn around then and forcefully burrowed into Sherlock until John's head was pretty much stuck between Sherlock's chest and chin and John's arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock's waist. "You're thinking again."  
  
Even though he appreciated the sentiment, Sherlock didn't relax, and he knew John felt it. "I'm sorry", he said.  
  
John tensed. "No, I'm sorry. A knee-jerk reaction. You're with a jerk, Sherlock."  
  
"Nah. Well. Yeah, but you're my jerk." He rubbed his chin along John's head. "And that's not what I meant. Sorry we had to come here. To work this case."  
  
"Oh Sherlock. If we turn down every case where someone kills himself because I might be reminded of the other two people who killed themselves or pretended to, we'll be out of work in no time."  
  
"Do you want me to turn them down? I could do something else, it's not like-"  
  
"And do what?"  
  
"I'm a chemist. I could go back to-"  
  
"What, work at AstraZeneca? Pfizer? Right."  
  
"University. Teach, maybe."  
  
"You wouldn't last a day."  
  
"I could try. I'm serious."  
  
John drew back an inch and regarded him, his outline visible against the whitewashed walls.  
  
"Sherlock. It's all fine. You'll see, in five years or ten I'll go and shove people off buildings just for the fun of it. Or because they laugh too loud. Or because they throw their butts off the roof. You'll see."  
  
"Sorry, what?"  
  
John settled back into his nook, and Sherlock felt him sigh against his throat. "Nothing, really. Just making fun. Sleep."  
  
"No, what you just said... People do, right? People do smoke on rooftops."  
  
"Sometimes, yes."  
  
"I wondered... If Lestrade is right, which he rarely is, but let's assume for the sake of argument, if he's right and there has been foul play, why would someone be up on the roof in the first place? If not to jump. But that explains it! Do we know if he was a smoker? No, we don't, because you didn't have the time to examine the body, it was cremated before we were notified... We'll have to ask his colleagues." Sherlock jumped off the bed and managed to get tangled up in the duvet, ripping it off John and the bed and almost falling, but he caught himself and started gathering his clothes. "Come on, John, let's ask them! There have to be some left here, they couldn't have gone back last night."  
  
"Sherlock." John hadn't moved, still lay on the bed, in a heap, just without duvet or Sherlock. "It's late. If they're still here, they're asleep. They'll go back to London tomorrow. Probably even on the same train. Wouldn't that be nice? The entire ride back to London, and an entire train of potential murderers just for you. Can't think of anything more exciting."  
  
But Sherlock was already off on a tangent. Smoking... "Smoking does kill, doesn't it."  
  
"Yeah. Well. I keep telling you that."  
  
"I went out for a smoke today."  
  
"I know, yes. Don't think you can fool me."  
  
"Had to go outside of course, smoking isn't allowed inside the café. Had to bum a cigarette off a guy in front of the café because you don't let me have any. He leaned against the wall. Bored. Impatient. Irritated. By his feet... How many were there?"  
  
"Feet?"  
  
"Not how many feet. How many butts?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"At least five. Fresh ones. He'd smoked half a pack. He was waiting for someone. Wouldn't go inside. Why? Why not go inside? The ring... he wore a ring. Married. Who wore the matching one? Think..." The rush that came with the realisation was almost better than heroin. Of course. Of course. "The dark-haired colleague. She wore the matching ring. Why would she go in and he wouldn't? He didn't go out to smoke. He was waiting for her to come out. To finish her business and leave. But he wouldn't go in. Why?"  
  
"Maybe he wasn't a friend of his."  
  
"Exactly. Not a friend. But it's perfectly acceptable to accompany a wife to a burial. Why didn't he? What was he? Why would he accompany someone all the way from London and not come in?"

Sherlock recalled the rest of the day, the excruciating coffee, Elizabeth growing tired, her façade gone, picking at splinters in her palms left there by the shovel. He'd stayed until the end, and so had the dark-haired woman, crying, stricken, sitting with Elizabeth and her family until Elizabeth stood and paid and left. Only then had John and Sherlock abandoned their post, and Sherlock faintly remembered the dark-haired woman getting into a car. A car he had seen in the parking lot where he'd had a smoke, and now he knew who she'd left with. The pieces clicked into place, and that was the best thing, the best thing in the world.

Except maybe for the best thing in the world that right now sat on the bed and pressed his face into Sherlock's T-shirt and slung his arms around his waist, breathing against Sherlock's sternum. Sherlock ran his hands through John's hair and felt the tension melt away, felt another piece click into place and said: "Yes. Tomorrow."

Back under the covers, he settled into the curve of John's body, and John slung an arm around him and pulled him in.

"Oh", Sherlock said. "I thought you weren't in the mood."

"A healthy human male has about ten erections per day", John lectured, a pretty accurate imitation of Sherlock's tone.

"Right. Oh. Wait. Are you saying we could have had at least one thousand eight-hundred more shags?"

"Well, we could", John said, slipping one hand underneath Sherlock's T-shirt. "Might make earning a living difficult though."

"Who cares about food when he can have John Watson."

"I do", John replied, nudging Sherlock around to face him with gentle pressure on the small of his back. "Can't have you starve", he said and kissed him, softly, "Need you strong and healthy."

"It was the deductions again, wasn't it?"

"It's always the deductions. Always has been", John said lightly and, with one fluid motion, straddled Sherlock, pinned him to the bed and kissed him until all deductions fell away and all that existed was John, John taking him apart like only he could until he shattered into a million fast expanding pieces but somehow, through that, grew more grounded, more tangible just the same, and this was a conundrum if there ever was one, one to ponder while sweat cooled and fluids mingled and John's frantic heartbeat calmed against Sherlock's chest. This was just biology, he thought, hormones, and then it wasn't, but he couldn't say why.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was up early, showered and dressed as quietly as possible, hoping John wouldn't wake up. He glanced at him while dressing, and though all he could see was an amorphous lump underneath the duvet plus a bit of grey-blond hair, he felt that familiar churning in his stomach, or his heart, maybe, he wasn't quite sure. He knew though that it always made him want to crawl right back under the covers with him and snuggle into the warmth and comfort and kiss John's nose and basically everything else, but definitely his nose because he crinkled it when Sherlock surprised him. And then, Sherlock realised he stood in the middle of the room, grinning like an idiot at a shapeless mound of human tissue, and that made him ridiculously happy.

Outside, he turned up his coat collar. You never knew.

The breakfast room was ready, but breakfast hadn't started yet. Sherlock concluded he still had half an hour before the smells of coffee and bacon might lure people down to the breakfast room. Hoping to catch one of Dowell's colleagues, he went outside. The courtyard with its ancient oak and chestnut trees, the air green with leaves and pollen and filled with birdsong, would have made a lovely place to have tea and, later, beer and fish and chips, but now, it was deserted, of course, it wasn't even six in the morning. Sherlock turned and saw Elizabeth, the widow, who avoided his gaze and looked at the cigarette in her hand. Shaking, Sherlock thought. She didn't look like she had slept. She had chosen the table most remote and least visible and, as Sherlock was watching, wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.  
Just a year ago, Sherlock thought, he wouldn't have sat with her. Two or three years ago, he would have marched over to her table and quizzed her, possibly hurt her. For the case. Out of curiosity, just because he could. But he recognized something in her now, and he might not be wiser, but certainly... less unkind. And so he sat next to her, not opposite, and he even turned his collar down. She took a deep pull on her cigarette and ignored him.  
  
"Do you mind if I-" he started, and she pushed the pack over to him without a word.

For a while, they sat in silence. Sherlock tried to figure out how to start a conversation - it turned out that having developed scruples wasn't all too expedient to conduct an investigation. But he must have done something right. She lit another cigarette and said: "I'm afraid we're wasting your time, Mr. Holmes. I apologize."

"No apologies necessary, Mrs. Dowell."  
  
"I wish my friends had consulted with me first before bringing you in. But then, I must have seemed rather preoccupied."  
  
"Lestrade wouldn't have called me hadn't he thought there was something to it."  
  
"Of course." Sherlock couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or if her voice broke because she was about to start crying. He considered extricating himself should she have a nervous breakdown - he wasn't equipped to deal with that. But then she continued: "Why do you think he did it?"  
  
"I wouldn't know. I'm a sleuth, not a psychiatrist. But then, I don't think he did it. I think he was murdered."  
  
At that, she barked a laugh and crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray in front of her. "Those are his, you know. I stopped a few years ago. We wanted to have children. So badly. Couldn't have any. Wasn't that drama enough for a life? For God's sake, what a waste. What a waste of years without a good smoke. Found them in his jacket when I-"  
  
"He was a smoker then?"  
  
"He was many things, apparently. And I had no idea."  
  
"But he was a smoker. Did he smoke at work?"  
  
"Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I have no idea what he did at work. No idea at all. Obviously."  
  
"You think he had an affair."  
  
"You saw her. Mrs. Sheffer. I know you did. A colleague. Used to be his trainee. Little bitch. Wailing at his funeral. Don't you think he had an affair?"  
  
Sherlock did turn then and did look at her, pale, freckled, almost translucent skin, lush auburn hair, until recently well-groomed, still very beautiful despite her grief. Very plain wedding ring, so plain he had to look twice to recognize it as platinum, unassuming and as horribly expensive as everything about her. New black clothes that fit her too well to be cheap, and expensive new shoes. And yet there was... he realised he stared, and he tore his gaze off her and lit another cigarette without asking. "He bought you the necklace you wear. Even though it is hugely oversimplified, there can be no doubt the pendant shows a manatee. Oddly specific choice. Not a generic dolphin. A manatee. He must have bought it for you during a vacation. It's cheap, and when you wear it, you develop a slight rash that will get worse over time because you're allergic to nickel. But he saw that you adored it, and he gave it to you because he knew you love manatees. That is the gift of a man who is very attuned to his wife."  
  
She closed her eyes, but the tears escaped anyway.  
  
"I'd like to visit your home, if you don't mind. If you'll have us."  
  
"Yes", she rasped, voice rough with the terrible temptation of hope. "Yes. You'd be welcome." She extended her hand. "Call me Beth."

"Sherlock", he said, and her hand closed around his like a vice.

 

 ***

"Sherlock. Please. Sit down."  
  
John had been right - the train ride back was the best Sherlock had ever had. It was packed with suspects. He'd made sure they found a seat in the middle of the carriage with the highest density of suspects, sorry, mourners, returning to London, and he had hours to deduce everything about them. It was fantastic. Only John's insistent, overly polite "please", something he only ever seemed to say if he really, really wanted him to comply, had put the brakes on Sherlock's proverbial train. Still. What fun. He sat down next to John, his smirk only just skirting a grin.  
  
"Having fun, yes."  
  
"Having fun."  
  
"Maybe a little less obvious."  
  
"Why? They can't throw us out, can they."  
  
"Sherlock. Are you sure you're asking the right questions?"  
  
"Of course I am. Would I ask them were I not sure?"  
  
"Have you ever heard of the observer-expectancy effect?"  
  
"You think I'm introducing bias by asking questions?  
  
"I think you should at least consider Beth's husband committed suicide."  
  
"I did consider it. But I dismissed it."  
  
"Prematurely, I think."  
  
"No, on grounds of strong indications to the contrary."  
  
"And not because you don't want this to be murder."  
  
"No!"  
  
"You sure."  
  
"Wait." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Are you suggesting I'm so traumatized by the latest suicides I can't see clearly?"  
  
John didn't answer and looked outside the window, which to Sherlock was answer enough. "John. That's preposterous."  
  
"Right. Because these things don't affect you."  
  
Sherlock felt his jaw drop at that. Of all the retorts that flashed through his head, none was in the least suited to defuse this situation, and so he shut his mouth. Another achievement, he thought. Restraint. John, his lesson in restraint. He glanced at John's reflection in the mirror and, again, thought how coming here had been a mistake.

"Tell me about your deductions", John said hoarsely, face turned to the window, and when Sherlock didn't answer right away, he shot him a brief look, the briefest hint of a smile, and John's hand between the two found Sherlock's and squeezed. Sherlock's chest felt like the elephant that had been sitting on it had finally deigned to stand up. He'd been forgiven, whatever it had been, he'd been forgiven. He knew he looked at John that way again, and John looked at him, and he tilted his head and then, he chuckled and said: "Just, please, low-level deductions. Let's keep it clean."  
  
And so Sherlock leaned his head against John's and told him about the passengers, keeping his voice low. "I am testing a hypothesis here, mind you. Current hypothesis: Dowell had an affair or someone thought he had and was killed for it. Oldest reason in the world. It's always either love or money, anything else is just a variation of these two themes."

"Not sure I agree, but, well."

"Dowell was away a lot, he left his wife alone for days or weeks at a time. He often took his former trainee with him. Mrs. Sheffer. You remember her, she's the-"

"The wailing women. I recall. How convenient."

"Yes, but here's what's puzzled me - nobody here believes they had an affair. Perfect match, she indulged him, he adored her and so on and so forth."

"Sounds too perfect to be true."

Sherlock glanced at John. His perfect match. He blinked. "Well. Yes. De mortuis nil nisi bene and all that. Sentiment. But I think we should consider the possibility that they were actually happy together."

"Or that he's a social climber, she found out he had an affair, and killed him."

"Hmm."

"You're not convinced."

"They said he went out of his way to bring his wife presents and keepsakes from his travels."

"Guilty conscience, Sherlock."

"No, small things, nothing expensive."

"Your point being?"

"John. A rich man who cheats on his wife, and he brings her a knee-high Chinese New Year rabbit? In red?"

"Bad taste maybe?"

"John."

"Sherlock. I'm just saying that men will be men. Maybe he's just smart enough to avoid clichés."

"You're saying all men cheat, given the opportunity?"

John drew back and glared at him. "That's not - Sherlock. Are you making this about us now?"

"No, why do you - John? Are you cheating on me?"

"No! No. Don't you think you'd have found that out already?"

No, Sherlock thought, because you're my blind spot. The only one I trust implicitly because I could never live with someone I doubt. Besides, that implied an exclusivity Sherlock didn't think he could ask of anyone. But aloud, he said: "That one over there might have a reason", he said, pointing out a young man in an expensive suit. "Expensive suit, but rumpled. He only has the one. Maybe two, but he packed only one and didn't give it proper care. Cheap shirt, worn at the cuffs. He only recently got a well-paying job. A colleague. Hopelessly in love with his senior colleague's young wife. He can't believe his good fortune. He'll make a move on her as soon as she's in London."  
  
"That's horrible", John said.  
  
"Funny you should say that", Sherlock smirked, remembering John's advances.  
  
"That was different", John protested. "That was me, the bereaved, in your drawers, not the other way around. Continue."  
  
"Opposite, an older colleague. Ulcer. Four kids, might explain the ulcer, divorced. Would have needed that promotion. Money is a strong motivator."  
  
"Think he did it?"  
  
"Nah. He's a stickler for rules. Couldn't even take a bribe, much less commit a murder. But that lady in the next booth. She's all kittens and wool and grandchildren and Sunday cake. However, she shows obvious symptoms of chronic arsenic poisoning that stopped around the time her husband died. Either she did it, or someone was after her meagre inheritance."  
  
"She's not part of the group though."  
  
"Correct. Still, might want to inform the local police... The goth kid over there? She knows her father made his money through insider trading and extortion."  
  
"Is there anyone on the train here who's actually innocent?"  
  
"That'd be extremely boring, wouldn't it."  
  
"Sometimes I think you're making that up to impress me."  
  
"Does it work?"  
  
"It sure does, yeah."  
  
"I'm not though."  
  
"I know", said John and leaned more fully against Sherlock, and a few minutes later, he sagged against him in a way that could only mean he had fallen asleep. He always did that on trains, and on planes, snatching catnaps whenever he could. John always claimed it was a gift, but Sherlock thought if he couldn't control it, which he couldn't, then 'disability' might have been more accurate, but as with so many things John did, he found it endearing. Sherlock jostled him into a more comfortable position and placed a small kiss on John's temple. John didn't wake, but sighed contently, and Sherlock suddenly found it was enough to look at Wales passing them by outside while guarding John's sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"This the place?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Great."  
  
"I think the word you're looking for is grand."  
  
"That too."  
  
Sherlock thought the house looked exactly the way he had expected it to look - like old money. A lot of old money. Kensington, a bit off the main streets, tucked away behind towering plane trees, constantly improved and manicured. Beth occupied the top floor with the roof-top garden, of course, but Sherlock had done his research and found out she owned not only this house, but the next two in row as well.  
  
"I'm glad we're invited", John remarked as they were buzzed in and entered the lift.  
  
"So am I. It would have taken me at least twenty seconds to pick the front door", Sherlock said.  
  
"That long!"  
  
"Yes, the lock seemed rather competent."  
  
"Besides, it'd be rude."  
  
"Not that we care about that, of course."  
  
"Shush, we're here."

 

Even though someone had buzzed them in, nobody was there to greet them. Or rather, too many people were there, unloading cardboard moving boxes from a goods lift onto the landing. Movers bustled around, and the doors to the apartment were wide open.  
  
"Interesting", Sherlock muttered under his breath. They walked in unhindered, and their surroundings became more and more confusing - a small army of movers were in the middle of packing and unpacking, the sleek minimalist Soho chic apparently making way to accommodate heavy oaken furniture, but of Beth, there was no sign. Instead, her mother oversaw what could only be called a thorough remodelling.  
  
"One way to deal with grief", John murmured.  
  
With sudden urgency at the intolerable sight of potential evidence being disposed of, Sherlock marched over to Beth's mother, who turned and glared at him: "Yes?"  
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt. Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes. We have an appointment with your daughter."  
  
She looked him up and down, disapproving of his presence, his clothing, and the interruption, but gave a wave down the corridor. "Elizabeth is in her room, being useless. Tell her I need her to take the dog to the groomer if she won't help with the move."  
  
Only then did Sherlock notice a panting lump of fur behind her, a hugely obese Maltese. "Ah. Adorable in the extreme. Your dog?"  
  
"Yes. If you will excuse me. There's so much to do."  
  
John and Sherlock wandered through what had once been the minimalist, sleek flat of fashion-conscious Londoners, they passed a dining room with a table for twelve, a sitting room with library attached, and a den hosting a huge plasma screen and possibly Beth's father, having fallen asleep in front of a muted cricket match. "You know, maybe we should buy a bucket of paint on the way back", John said when they crossed a spacious solarium with a view over London, where someone tried to wrap a huge Crassula plant into bubble wrap. "And a nice new rug, maybe? Something clean."  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Let's not get overboard. Soap might already do wonders. Ah. That must be it."  
  
The door to her room was closed. Sherlock knocked, just for appearances, because he did enter right away. Her "room" was a bright study half photo studio, and now Sherlock knew who had made the gorgeous black and white photographies workers were packing into boxes outside. She sat on a daybed, knees drawn up to her chest, a wide-eyed tabby cat on a blanket next to her and another tuxedo cat staring down at them from a wardrobe.  
  
"Please close the door, the cats..."  
  
Sherlock noticed two things, no, three, no, many: She was in worse shape than just a few days ago, had gone without sleep, she had the absent-minded look of someone on valium, but her pupils seemed normal, and she had withdrawn into the most remote room in her own house while her flat was torn apart around her. Boxes were stacked along one side of the wall.  
  
John stood by the door and closed it. "Sorry. Your mother wanted us to pass along-"  
  
"Yes. I know. The dog." Remembering her manners, she added: "Thank you. Please, do have a seat."  
  
John did sit down opposite her, but Sherlock wandered around the studio.  
  
"I'm afraid it's all a bit of a mess at the moment."  
  
"Yes, we couldn't help but notice", John said, "What's going on? Are you moving?"  
  
"No. Yes. I'm moving into this studio, I think. My parents are moving in."  
  
"Are they. That's nice of them", John said carefully.  
  
"You'd think, wouldn't you."  
  
"But only for a while? Until you get back on your feet?"  
  
"Don't be silly", Sherlock said, oblivious to John's careful probing. "They're moving in for good. This is their chance to finally leave the draughty old place in whatever it is, Cornwall, Devon, is it Devon? Ah. I thought it was. For a loft in London. Who wouldn't? Complete with a spinster daughter to care for them in their dotage. Another one here who cannot believe their luck. Too bad they displace so much volume you're pushed to the fringe in your own house. Though it's a fringe the size of our flat... Not quite what you expected, was it? No. Of course. You wanted help, but you get it on their terms, not on yours, and it's not what you need. Tell them to leave. The sooner the better."  
Sherlock turned just on time to see Beth's humourless smile and John glowering at him. "Sorry. Did I get something wrong?"  
  
Beth laughed then. "No. Entirely accurate. To be fair, they want to help. They're just..." She made a vague gesture.

"They take over your entire life", said Sherlock.  
  
John turned to her and leaned forward: "Listen. You shouldn't stay here. Just say the word, and I'll have you whisked away to a nice private place where nobody knows who you are and what happened if you don't tell them."

"Thank you. But no. I can't leave the cats, my mother-"

"That can be arranged, we can find someone-"  
  
That's when Sherlock found something interesting after all. "These are your husband's desk contents?"  
  
She came over and looked at the box he had unearthed. "Yes. I rescued it. My mother throws away all that was his. Says it's good for me."  
  
"This is you on...?"  
  
"El Hierro. He liked diving. Whale watching too."  
  
"And this is you and him in Hyde Park, both of you in Florida, manatees again, a festival bracelet, and then the usual stuff, breath mints, cigs, you bought him this pen, and this one, and this one too because he probably told you he kept losing them but they're all here, almost unused but handled a lot. He liked it when you gave him pens, didn't he. Probably tried to make it easier for you to find a present for a man who has it all. If you ask me, he thought about you during work more often than he should have. "  
  
"Doesn't mean he didn't have an affair."  
  
"No, but it's unlikely. Though you'll never know for sure, of course, now that he's dead. You will have to accept the possibility you will never know the truth. That died with him. Learn to trust the probabilities."  
  
"Sorry", said John. Sherlock frowned. John continued: "Who do you think had a reason to kill him? What do you think?"  
  
"Nobody. Nobody really. He doesn't have a mean bone in his body", she said, and suddenly started crying, silently and hopelessly, recalling all the bones had been burned and ground to fine dust and buried in a forest a long way from here, whether they had been mean or not.

They sat with her a little while longer. John finally wrenched himself loose and reluctantly let Beth alone in her study with her memories and two apathetic cats. Sherlock saw him cast one last look at the despondent woman on the daybed and quickly moved away through the maelstrom of movers and the boxed remains of a life.


	4. Chapter 4

The office was the obvious next stop. Sherlock rushed ahead. He knew exactly where he had to go. Knew exactly what to do, which questions to ask. Shot off a text while John hailed a cab, willed the car to go faster and stormed off, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He had to know. Had to see. Before wasting any more time. He had to go and see.  
He almost bumped into the manager (sallow skin, smoker, weren't they all, stressful life, looked older than he was, hadn't slept well in days) who wouldn't get out of his way fast enough, barked a quick "Which way to the roof?" and let John deal with the niceties that were so necessary for so many people.  
  
He estimated he had maybe a minute on John and Mr. Hall, the manager, and enjoyed the shock his entrance to the roof garden caused in the crowd gathered there. His coat flapped around him dramatically as he strode towards the edge of the roof, where he stooped down and brushed gravel off a big footprint right on the edge of the knee-high metal-covered wall.  Not unlike the one at Bart's, he thought, not unlike that at all, just a short step onto it and then down, down, onto the street you went. So easy to jump. These buildings made it far too easy. So easy to be pushed if you stood too close, which is what he did right this very moment, and he became aware of the cigarette butts (he knew where he'd seen them before) on the ground in front of him (curious, because the smokers at the roof garden, who still looked at him in shock and awe, used ash trays, of course they did, they were British after all), which pointed to only one of his theories. And he had known that all along. And also, there was a presence behind him, someone stood very close. He stood, facing the street, relishing the brief thrill, the certainty, deep down, that if he took one step, or if someone pushed him, he'd fall and die. Sherlock smiled. And then he turned and didn't even have to glance at the name on the uniform to know exactly who this was. "Mr. Sheffer. How kind of you to join."

The others were gone, he saw, the smoking crowd had evaporated. Break was over, apparently.  
  
"Size ten, safety shoes", Sherlock said. "Of course."  
  
Sheffer looked down at his feet. Safety shoes. In-house mail service uniform, which explained so many things, Sherlock thought. "You have access to all offices. You knew your wife fancied her colleague, you know she had filed for divorce. Had legal counsel. You knew because you checked her calender, you spied on her. You were so jealous. Of course you thought Mr. Dowell would fall for you wife, after all, you had. And she for you, strangely, even though she found out soon enough you're smart alright, but far too lazy for anything resembling a career. Was she ashamed of her husband, the postman? Did you meet during smoking breaks? Did you see her here, when she met with her colleagues whose mail you delivered, and did you see the looks she shot him? Of course you did. Of course you saw. Did you really think she'd take you back after you killed her favourite colleague?"  
  
Sheffer took a step towards Sherlock, matching Sherlock's grin. "You can't prove any of that."  
  
"Of course I can. Mr. Sheffer, seriously, do you think I'd come here unprepared? Do you see that mark on the metal cladding? That's your shoe. Rubber. Size ten. Deep profile. It was a hot day, and it does get hot on the roof. Rubber soles always leave marks on hot metal. Does anyone else come up here in safety shoes? I think not. The men all wear dress shoes, the women all wear heels. And these cigarette butts, smoked right down to the quick. Are you a thrifty man, Mr. Sheffer? I bet you are. And lazy. There are two, no, three ashtrays over there, but you couldn't be bothered. You were too busy killing a man for something he didn't even do. Poor Mr. Dowell. I wonder if he wished he had actually had your wife before you killed him for it. You know. During his last seconds."  
  
"Nobody is going to look for that if I simply push you off the roof, Mr. Holmes", Sheffer said, stepping closer.  
  
"Two people falling to their deaths from the same spot? A bit obvious, don't you think. A severe health and safety issue at the very least. Besides, Mr. Sheffer, you might want to turn around and tell my friend, DI Lestrade over there, why you acted in self defence when you murdered Mr. Dowell."  
  
"That's the oldest trick in history", Sheffer said, rushing Sherlock, who stepped aside nimbly and tripped him. Sheffer smashed into the low wall face-first, and the crack of teeth on metal was quite satisfying, Sherlock found while John and Lestrade tackled Sheffer and pinned him to the ground - quite unnecessarily, Sherlock thought, because Sheffer was preoccupied trying not to swallow his front teeth. Behind them in the doorway, her face a mask of contempt, stood Beth, arms crossed, stock still. Her eyes travelled from Sheffer to the ledge and to Sherlock and back to Sheffer, then she turned around and vanished, and for a moment, Sherlock wondered if he'd seen a ghost.

 

"And that couldn't have waited", John managed, brushed gravel and dirt off himself and glared at Sherlock while Lestrade tended to his latest suspect.  
  
"Waited?"  
  
"Yeah. You know. Wait for backup. Because that was bloody dangerous!"  
  
"John. This was entirely safe."  
  
"Safe! Sherlock. Have you seen that drop?"  
  
"Yes, of course. That was quite the point."  
  
John stood and regarded him curiously, head tilted, as if he couldn't figure him out. He stepped closer, and Sherlock anticipated a hug, but that didn't come. Instead, John stood right in front of him and glared, his nostrils wide, and then turned and stomped off into the staircase leading down. Sherlock followed after a puzzled second or two. "John, wait! We solved it. That's good, isn't it? We solved it."  
  
"Yes, yes, you solved it", John yelled back but didn't stop.  
  
"John!"  
  
"That's my name."  
  
"John, please-"  
  
"What!"  
  
"Lestrade is taking him in, we can't leave now!"  
  
"You can't. I can."  
  
"John!" They were on street level now where John hailed a cab, ignoring Sherlock's pleading. "John. I didn't even bring my wallet, I-"  
  
"You're the genius, figure it out." John sat back in the cab before opening the door again and saying: "Just stand in front of a CCTV cam and ask Mycroft to fix it. As always." The smile he gave him was wide, but didn't reach his eyes, and it froze Sherlock in his tracks.

He was so totally frozen he didn't even notice Lestrade had reached the street, Sheffer in tow. Lestrade grinned like a dog with a juicy bone. "Come on", said Lestrade and placed a big hand on his shoulder. "You can ride with us. In the back. With the suspect. How about that?"  
  
"It would appear I'm out of options", he replied.  
  
"That I'd see the day." Still grinning, Lestrade transferred sleuth and suspect into the car. "And, you know, maybe stay away from great heights for a while. For John. For all of us really."

 

***

Lestrade dropped him off at Baker Street later that evening. Sheffer had confessed. Of course he had. The case was solved, the death reclassified as murder, which, Sherlock suspected, would bring Beth some solace. But then, he thought as he climbed the stairs one step at a time, reluctant, dreading what he'd find, it appeared he had absolutely no idea how people worked.  
On the landing, he paused briefly and listened for the small noises that would tell him what John did, but there were none. With a sigh, his eyes closed, he stepped in.  
  
"So you made it." John sat in his chair, reading a book.  
  
"Of course I did."  
  
"Of course you did."  
  
"Lestrade dropped me off."  
  
"Right."  
  
"I'm starving. Are you up for Chinese?"  
  
"I've already eaten."  
  
The silence that fell was the most uncomfortable silence Sherlock had endured since, well, to be fair, probably since this morning. After what seemed like an eternity, and during which John didn't even flip a page, Sherlock said: "Okay."  
  
With a start, Sherlock noticed he hadn't even taken off his coat yet, he stood in the living room like the imbecile he was and stared at John's back.  
  
"Tell me what to do", he said flatly. "To make this go away. Because I don't know how."  
  
John closed the book with a snap, stood and turned to him with a sour little smile. "Make what go away?"

"This", Sherlock gestured, encompassing everything, John's shitty mood as well as Sherlock's crippling feeling of guilt and inadequacy.  
  
"I'm afraid there's absolutely nothing you can do about it", John said. "I'm off to bed. Eat or don't, I don't care."

He didn't eat. Of course not. On the sofa that night, Sherlock brooded about what had happened, and about what was going on in that brain on the other side of their bedroom door. He hadn't dared to go into their bedroom, not with John there, but he suspected that made something worse, something he didn't understand. In the end, with that conclusion achieved, he tried to sleep, but sleep was hard to come by.


	5. Chapter 5

The phone call caught Sherlock entirely off guard, asleep on the sofa. He'd fallen asleep as dawn had crept into the flat, and had slept through John eating breakfast and probably even lunch alone. It had caught him entirely unaware. He'd never have suspected that, and that alone unhinged him.  
  
"It's Lestrade", John said. "She's dead."  
  
"Sorry. Who's dead? A case?"  
  
"It's Beth, Sherlock. Her mother found her. She cut her throat. This morning."

"Her mother cut Beth's throat?"

The quiet rage in John's voice gave Sherlock pause. "No. Sherlock. Beth cut her own throat. Her own mother found her. This morning."

Sherlock reeled. Cut her throat? Strange. Possible, but strange. Didn't fit with the impression he'd had. no. Not one bit. She'd been... Very controlled, very smart, very in charge. Not prone to violence at all. It seemed so unlike her to give up after all she'd been through. How could she - he had to go and look at her.

"Oh", he said. "Knife. Didn't think she'd be the type. Interesting. Tell Lestrade not to touch anything. I'll be right there." And he went to gather his coat. But the tone of John's voice when he told Lestrade... He stopped and looked and found John glowering at him, phone still in hand.  
  
"It doesn't affect you. Not at all. How can it not affect you?"  
  
"It does, John."  
  
"No. I don't see it. I just don't see it."  
  
"John. I can't let emotion cloud my judgement."  
  
"Like the rest of us mortals you mean. She killed herself, Sherlock. You pushed her, and she jumped. This is on you."  
  
Sherlock knew he shouldn't say anything to that, not really. That was too close to what he told himself over and over and over, and what he could never forgive and he knew John, despite it all, could never forget. But he was tired, and depressed, and on edge, and so he said: "Yes. Yes, I pushed her. I wanted her to get out of there. Get her life back. Escape. Yes, I wanted that!" He knew he was getting louder, too loud, and that he had started stalking towards John, who glowered at him defiantly. "And oh, yes, I wanted to believe they'd led a happy life. You know, before someone came along and ripped it all apart. Yes! Of course I wanted her to have a faithful dead husband instead of a lying little shit dead husband. But you know what? I was right! I was right. And you were wrong."

"As always."

"Yes. As always. But that's not even what it's about. It's always about you, isn't it. You'll never get over that. Yes. I jumped. Yes. I left you. I'm so, so sorry. There. There!"  Sherlock spread his arms in a gesture of admission and angry defeat. He turned his back on John, John with his flaring nostrils and clenched teeth, gathered his coat and said: "But you know why I did it. You know that. I love you. I love you, John. And I do care. That's why I'll go and look at a crime scene now." He slung the scarf around him and turned to leave. "Don't wait up", he added, and was just out the door when John slammed it shut with an angry: "As if."

 

***

Sherlock barrelled into the crime scene and experienced a brief flash of satisfaction when the New Scotland Yard crowd scattered before his wrath. If anyone found it weird that John wasn't with him, they didn't mention it. If anyone had, he'd have added another dead body to the scene.  
  
The report said she'd been found in her studio, her refuge, by her mother. The flat had changed yet again, the heavy oaken furniture had been partly dismantled and wrapped for transport, the contents of her parents' cupboards had been packed into boxes again, and minimalist chic was making its comeback. Interesting, Sherlock thought, noticing the big Crassula in the solarium, a bit worse for wear, but he imagined it already recovered the space it had been denied. One of the cats sauntered past and hopped onto a deck chair in the solarium. Things had changed here yet again. What had happened?  
  
Only Lestrade and Anderson waited for him at the studio. They hadn't gone in. He nodded at them and stepped closer to her body.  
  
Weird. Weird indeed. Her throat was slit, that much was clear, and the blood had pooled on the crème carpet. He blocked her familiar face and her familiar clothes and focused on the rest of the scene, keeping her for last. It might derail him. Usually, he didn't know the victims. They'd shared her cigarettes. No. No, delete that. Not delete, maybe. Just - store it somewhere else.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Sherlock ignored Lestrade and focused on the blood. Cat prints littered the floor. They must have sniffed her. Touched her. Wanted to make her wake up. Dog prints, too.  
  
"Where's the dog?"  
  
"What dog?"  
  
"The mother's dog. Small Maltese."  
  
"No dog here."  
  
Carotid wounds made a mess. The blood pressure made for a nice spurt of blood, underestimated by most film makers. Especially when the throat was cut ear to ear. The splatters had stained the wall, of course, and the pattern of droplets was... incomplete. It was incomplete. Something or someone had stood in the way, right in front of her, and had left a negative on the wall, a negative in blood.  
  
"About five feet, maybe a little taller", Sherlock mused. "She fell forward and her blood blotted out the rest of the prints. We won't find anything there. But her assailant was a woman or a short man."  
  
"Assailant."  
  
"Yes. You know. The murderer. I think you will find it was murder, not manslaughter. Well. Maybe she'll plead manslaughter, rage clouding her mind..."  
  
Sherlock went over to Beth's body. "Can I turn her?"  
  
"Go ahead. We have all the photos we need."  
  
"Ah. Just how I thought. That settles it. Come on, John. We need to find-"  
  
"John's not here, Sherlock. Who do you want me to find?"  
  
"Oh. Right." Sherlock's blood ran cold, not so much from seeing the body, though that was bad, and he knew now that he had caused her death, indirectly, that he had underestimated... He needed John, and John wasn't here. He breathed through a moment of discomfort at that thought, tried to clear his head.  
  
"Find who, Sherlock?"  
  
"The mother, of course."  
  
"Of course", Lestrade mocked.  
  
"Who else?" With that, Sherlock turned his back on body and studio and marched towards the main entrance, Lestrade and Anderson in tow. "I am going to assume you didn't think to look for the knife with which she allegedly killed herself and which, had she killed herself, would be in her immediate vicinity as she, the victim, wouldn't have been able to move it, being dead."  
  
"Wait a second. You told us not to touch her! We thought it was underneath her body!"  
  
"Well, it's not. What does that tell you? Exactly. Whoever killed her has the knife. Or, maybe..." Sherlock took a detour into the kitchen and ripped open cupboard after drawer until he found what he looked for, or didn't find it, to be precise: "A skinning knife. Nobody ever uses a skinning knife in a kitchen. It's always in the knife block, never sees action. As long as there's no need to murder someone, of course. Where is it? And no, it's not in the dishwasher. And not in the drawers. I challenge you to find it - no, I don't mean that literally. It's not here. Whoever cut her throat ran off with it, possibly thinks she can dispose of it later. And then the wound itself."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"Come on, Lestrade! Don't tell me you didn't see that!"  
  
"Again! You told us not to move her. No. Of course I didn't see it. From the corridor. Out there. Where we all waited for you to show up and insult us!"  
  
"Assume for a second that for whatever reason, you want to cut your own throat, and no, Anderson, don't try that at home. You start at the side opposite your dominant hand. Because it hurts and because you have to work swiftly, with one quick slash, the cut is always deeper on the left. In anyone who's right-handed. Only with very determined victims we'll find a symmetric distribution of force. Where does her cut start? Correct. On her right. And it's deepest on the front. What does that tell us? Anyone? Anderson? Of course. It tells us whoever made the cut stood in front of the victim, and she'll be bathed in blood. Didn't anyone notice the pattern on the wall? Am I surrounded by idiots! Wait. Don't answer that. Waste of time", Sherlock smiled and called the lift. "Of course I am. Arrest the mother."


	6. Chapter 6

Daylight was fading when Sherlock found himself somewhere else entirely. He hadn't thought about it, not consciously, but somehow, his feet (and the tube) had carried him not to Baker Street, but to Molly's flat, and once he was there, he still didn't think about it, stared at the sign at the door and pressed the bell. He was numb, and he was tired and worn out and when Molly opened the door, saw him and dragged him in, he felt incredibly relieved.  
  
"Tell me", she said and poured tea. He didn't drink, noticed the mug was big and chipped a bit and had sentimental value because she'd picked it up on a vacation, which reminded him of manatees and of Beth and John and the pressure behind his sternum became unbearable. And so he told her everything, everything about the case, and Beth's death, at which Molly's lips tightened and her eyes reddened, and he suspected she knew Sherlock was responsible for her death, which he was, of course he was, he'd told her to leave, he should have seen, he should have warned her, but he'd had no idea. But then he told her about John's reaction, about his quiet disapproval and his rage and their fight and Sherlock's ill-timed reply. And then, haltingly, he told it all, unable to find the words at first, but when she didn't stop him and didn't look at him and didn't move a muscle, the words came faster, pain and fear bursting forth in a putrid, needy stream of words he knew he shouldn't say. And then, at some point, she must have moved over to the sofa, because he found himself sobbing into her jumper so much his words became practically unintelligible but spilled out anyway.

She let him talk until all was said and then she asked, his face still buried against her shoulder: "Do you love him?"  
  
He only nodded violently, unable to reply.  
  
"I know he loves you very much."  
  
She ran a hand through his hair, something John did, but this was different, caring, innocent. Comforting without any undertone. "That's all that matters."

 

He was utterly exhausted. Molly lay him down on the sofa, made him take off his shoes and covered him with a blanket that had moose on it, and his last thought before falling into exhausted sleep was that he hadn't known she liked moose.

The door bell tore him from his stupor. Sherlock froze. He had no idea what time it was, and it took him a moment to realise he was at Molly's, and that it was dark and very late. And the door bell had rung. Why had the door bell rung?  
Before he could move, he heard someone (Molly, had to be Molly) sleepily stumble towards the door. He chose to play dead for now. From where he lay, he couldn't see the door, but he could see the faint cone of light that fell in from the stairs as Molly opened the door.  
  
"He's not here", Molly said, her voice rough with sleep.  
  
"Molly. Let me in. I know he's here." John. John was here. Sherlock tensed, torn between the impulse to run and hug him, throw himself at him, and... whatever it was that made him play possum underneath Molly's moose blanket.  
  
"You can't know that."  
  
"I do, actually. His brother has him on CCTV."  
  
"I don't think he wants to talk to you."  
  
"I'd like to hear him say that to my face."  
  
"After what you said to him, I don't think you have a right to make demands."  
  
"Yes. I know. I've been an ass. So there. Now let me in."  
  
"It's late."  
  
"Yes. It's late. And I'm glad I woke you up because you see, I haven't slept, I'm worried because my boyfriend hasn't come home after visiting a crime scene. I'm worried sick actually, Molly, it's not like he's the most reasonable, most careful person in the world, and if he's in there, tell him to come home because - fuck. Tell him to come home!"  
  
"I'll tell him you were here when I see him."  
  
"When you see him. Right."  
  
There was a beat, and Sherlock thought John had given up. He didn't know what to make of that, wasn't comfortable with John staying, wasn't fine with him leaving. But then John's voice came again, louder: "Sherlock, I know you can hear me. We need to talk. Please come home."  
And that was the first time ever Sherlock heard the words everyone in a relationship ever dreaded: We need to talk. He bolted and made it to the bathroom before throwing up violently.

When he emerged from the bathroom, empty and shaking, it was to the peculiar sight of a fully lit flat and John and Molly at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in front of them, silent, waiting. John in jeans and jumper, both rumpled and creased, Molly in a pink robe. She looked at him pleading for forgiveness, kneading her mug. Sherlock sat down behind the third mug on the table. It was late, or rather, early, almost four in the morning. It felt weird, he felt weird, as if there wasn't enough oxygen, every sound exaggerated and out of proportion.  
  
"Hello", John said.  
  
Sherlock didn't dare to look at him because if John saw how much he hurt, he'd feel bad, and the one thing Sherlock didn't want was to cause John pain. He'd caused enough pain for several lifetimes, and John deserved love and happiness for the rest of his life, with or without Sherlock.  
  
"Are you ever going to talk to me again?" John asked. Sherlock pressed his lips together in response. Molly, observant as ever, excused herself and went to the bathroom, cast one last look at Sherlock to see if he'd be fine. He heard the shower a short while later. He assumed Molly didn't think she'd get any more sleep today. Neither would he.  
  
"Please talk to me."  
  
Useless, Sherlock thought, devoid of information, useless pings to elicit a useless response.  
  
"Sherlock", John said, and then he placed his hands over Sherlock's where they clasped the mug. "Sherlock", he said again, and his voice cracked. But he couldn't talk, not anymore. It was as though all talk had left him when he'd spilled his fear and hurt in front of Molly. What he could do though was look at John and hope he saw. Saw how much he wanted John to take him home and take the pain away, make it all better. How he feared he'd crossed a line. That they could never go back to what they were, that he'd broken the wonderful thing they had and lost it all.  
  
"Sherlock, please. I know you're not what I said. I know that. I shouldn't have said those things. You're right, this case was too much. Too early. It's not your fault. None of it."  
  
He moved his thumb across Sherlock's knuckles, but the familiar gesture made him tense up.  
  
"We're both difficult, Sherlock, you and I, and we'll fight. A lot, I think. In years to come. But as long as you still love me - please, talk to me. As long as we're talking, we'll be fine, won't we? Won't we?"  
  
But Sherlock was frozen, as much as he wanted to talk, he knew he had an uncanny knack for making things worse. And so John's hands let go of his, and eventually, when first John and then Molly had left the flat, Sherlock sat alone, a cooling cup of tea in hand and two untouched mugs on the table, until the sun came up and he thought that this sunrise marked another era, one he wouldn't like much.

 

He was still at the table when Molly returned, a bag of pastries and rolls in hand. Sherlock blinked. Had he really only sat alone for as long as it took to fetch breakfast? He must have.  
  
"I've had fantasies about this", Molly said while she made fresh tea and fetched jam and butter. "Not, you know, you on the sofa."  
  
"Molly."  
  
"I know, I know. Do you take coffee as well?"  
  
"No, thanks, tea is fine."  
  
"Funny you can talk now", she remarked, taking a bite out of her roll, hiding her smile.  
  
"I...", Sherlock started, studying his pastry.  
  
"Don't be angry with him."  
  
"I'm not angry."  
  
"What are you then?"  
  
"I don't know. Not angry."

"Hurt?"

"I don't think I have any right to be hurt."  
  
She sipped on her tea and looked at him over the rim of her mug.  
  
"What?"

"He did look worried."  
  
"Did he."  
  
"He did to me. Did he say he called your brother?"  
  
"Yes. Stupid. I should have known he'd have me on CCTV."  
  
"John called Mycroft?"  
  
"He could have texted him, but he probably called, yes."  
  
"So they're close now?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that."  
  
"John called Mycroft, and then he came here. In the middle of the night."  
  
Sherlock just stared, wide-eyed, racking his brain for something to say, but before he could make more of a fool of himself, the phone rang. "If that's him", he started, but Molly was already on the phone. "It's Greg", she said, "They need your help."


	7. Chapter 7

John was there. Why was John here? Sherlock found him an intolerable distraction, there in his chair at the back of the room where they interrogated Beth's mother. Obviously, he hadn't slept, nor had he changed his clothes or shaved. He'd been there when Sherlock had come in. Of course. Lestrade had certainly called Baker Street first, and John must have told him he was at Molly's. In any case, he tried to wrench his eyes away from John but found his thoughts returned to him invariably. He did look tired, and worried, and he stole glances at Sherlock. It'd be easier without him in the room. For a moment, he entertained the thought, but it seemed excessive, and then Beth's mother was brought in. Sherlock set his jaw and banned every thought of John.  
  
"So", he said. "Why did you kill your daughter?"  
  
"I already told this gentleman here" - she indicated Lestrade, who rolled his eyes - "several times today that I did not kill my daughter, and that this is a disgrace, and that I'll file a complaint."  
  
"Yesyes", Sherlock said. "Lestrade, send someone to the flat and have them search the street drains. Oh, and the dog litter bins. I'm certain you'll find the knife there somewhere. And please, do yourself a favour and get a warrant. How you could miss the dried blood on her handbag will be forever beyond me."  
  
Lestrade did take a closer look at the handbag and cursed.  
  
"Profanity won't help", Sherlock continued. "Looking inside it will, though. You're fond of that bag, aren't you. It's expensive, too. I'm no expert, what do Gucci bags go for these days? A little blood inside won't affect resale value much now will it, and it certainly didn't keep you from dumping it together with the knife."  
  
"I did dispose of the knife, yes, but I didn't kill my daughter. Preposterous to even think-"  
  
"Of course you did. It's either you or your husband, nobody else was there at that point. How I know? I don't, but I will as soon as I look at the security tapes. CCTV is so helpful! Your husband is oblivious to your vicious streak, he has to be to survive, but he's unable to commit murder. He's too slow. You on the other hand... And then there's the negative image you left on the wall when your daughter's blood sprayed all over you and the room. Where did you dispose of the clothing? Did you wash it? Ah, yes, of course. I remember I heard the washer when we came in. Missed it. There's always something, isn't there."  
  
Sherlock sat back and regarded her for a moment, a tired old woman who sat very straight and glowered at him defiantly. For the briefest moment, he felt the urge to hit her, the woman who had killed her own child.  
  
"I understand", he said. "You must have been tremendously disappointed. Your daughter. Your own flesh and blood. The child you sacrificed everything for. Or at least the odd day at the hunt and the club now and then. She went and married below her standing, and then she has the nerve to show you the door when all you want is help her. How ungrateful. She had to be shown the errors of her ways. I understand that perfectly."  
  
Her features relaxed, she sagged, and suddenly, she looked her age. "It was heaven-sent", she said. "His death. Neat. Unlike a divorce would have been. But why wouldn't she just let us help? Why didn't she accept that all we ever did was to help her? I would have found a better match for her, better than that upstart she chose to be saddled with. Thank God they never had children, did you know a tendency for suicide is inheritable? She could have done so much better than that. She had so many options, and what did she choose? A banker. Can you imagine, his father was a salesman. His mother was a teacher. He came from a family of coal miners! No. I was very, very cross with her."  
  
"Understandable. She could have done so much better. Unlike her brother, I hear."  
  
"Her brother. There's a disappointment. He never had good marks, not like her. But we would have paid for a good education anyway. He could have been anything! What did he choose? He's a cook. He cooks for other people."  
  
"He owns a hot restaurant with a waiting list. Scottish food is the new black, or so I've heard, yes."  
  
"He cooks. Spends weekends and holidays at the restaurant, up to his elbows in haggis."  
  
"Not what you would expect from a heir."  
  
"Indeed not. You must understand, I didn't plan this. But when she said she'd sell the flat and move to New York City, I snapped. It was spur of the moment."  
  
"So the knife was in her room already?"  
  
"Of course. I grabbed it and-"  
  
"What had she used it for?"  
  
"Why, I don't know. It just - lay there."

"Unlikely. She didn't seem the type who would leave anything dangerous near her cats. No. But why... why did you bring a knife, if not to kill your daughter?"  Sherlock's gaze went inward, and he made the connection. "Of course." The revelation churned in his stomach, made him sick. "She's always been difficult, hasn't she? Needed constant correction. A little rebel."

"She was a wily child."

"A wily child needs to be shown her limits, needs to know she owns nothing at all and controls even less. But how do you control someone out of your control? How do you punish in a society that no longer tolerates the cane... By destroying the only thing you could destroy with the least repercussions: her cats. Yes. I see no other reason for her to restrain her cats like that, not with your dog hugely obese and unable to lick his own balls, let alone chase a cat. No. You knew exactly where to push. If we looked into your past, would we find many pets having come to an untimely end for certain - offences?"  
  
She didn't answer, stared straight ahead.  
  
"Horses even, I'd wager."  
  
"No matter what she told you, her pony was old. It was a mercy."  
  
Sherlock nodded. "I see. But what you faced now was a strong, determined woman who had just buried her husband with her own hands. That changes people. She wouldn't be bullied by you. She stood up for what was left of her family and what was left of her life. But you know what bothered me most when I examined her body? We found no defensive wounds on her. She trusted you until the end. Her final mistake."  
  
"I didn't plan to -"  
  
"No, of course not. You only threatened to kill a pet because your daughter wanted her life back. Killing your daughter was an accident, a spur of the moment thing. In the heat of passion and all that. I understand. I really do. But then, I am a sociopath too."

He stopped there. Searched her face, keeping his face carefully passive, calm and detached, but he couldn't find the smallest hint of grief, not the tiniest speck of regret. She was upset, yes, upset it hadn't worked out for her, upset that she'd been found out, but that was all there was behind that façade of cashmere, pearls, and silk. She looked anywhere but at him, searched the faces of Lestrade and John and Anderson, but they wouldn't offer her an out. They sat like that until, about an hour later, the door opened, and Donovan came in, triumphant, with an evidence bag and a knife inside. Sherlock thought he'd finally be able to breathe again. It'd been but a guess, he'd guessed she hadn't wanted to go far with evidence in her bag.  
  
"A fingerprint. Clear as day", Donovan declared. "That won't take long."  
  
"Now would be an excellent time to confess", Lestrade said. "Your last chance, actually."

Beth's mother, though, didn't say another word. She didn't have to. Prints, DNA, and plain old evidence would convict her anyway. Sherlock waited until she'd been taken away, until he'd had a look at the knife and the rest of the evidence. It should have felt good to be right about this. Why didn't it?  
His eyes kept skipping John at the back of the room, John, who tried to catch his eye, who had been strangely quiet throughout the interrogation. Lestrade and Donovan exchanged glances, Donovan snorted and was silenced with a stare from Anderson, who brought him a coffee he didn't like. All the while, exhaustion sang like a steady whine in his body and vibrated through his bones. It made his hands shake. He clenched them into fists. If he'd been the good man his brother wanted him to be, he'd have understood he was close to breaking.  
  
When all was said and done, he went outside and hailed a cab without a word to any of his colleagues, but he was strangely relieved to find John in the cab with him.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Ridiculous, Sherlock thought. They had shared a cab so many times, why would this be any different? Only it was. They sat next to each other, but the distance between them couldn't have been greater. None spoke. Sherlock felt John's eyes on him and looked out of the window. He should have felt exhilarated, the case was solved, but the feeling wouldn't come. He was bone tired. The cab stopped at Baker Street, and for a moment, the temptation to simply sit and let the cab take him somewhere else, anywhere, was overwhelming. But in the end, he did follow John up the stairs and into their flat.  
  
It looked just as it had when he'd left it. Of course. He'd been gone a little over a day. Sherlock remained right in the middle of the sitting room and didn't know what to do, how to start over.

A tug on his coat made him turn. He flinched. John smiled at him, a tired, resigned smile. "Come here", he said and pushed his hands underneath his coat and took it off him. "You're dead on your feet." Sherlock hung his head and stared at the floor in front of him.  
  
"I should make you eat something."  
  
Sherlock wished John would stop talking, and wished he'd never stop.  
  
"Yeah. Thought so. Bed then", John said, took his hand and lead him to the bedroom. Sherlock undressed and lay down and wasn't all that surprised when John sat down next to him. He thought about turning his back to him and shutting him out, but that would have been crossing another line, and so he only looked at John with his two-day stubble and his weary eyes, and felt entirely, completely numb. John's hand closed around the edge of the duvet and made minute adjustments that didn't count as tucking him in, not quite. But then he leaned down and kissed Sherlock's brow, gently, his lips warm and soft, and his hand caught in Sherlock's curls and closed around a handful of hair while he kissed down his nose and lingered for a moment on Sherlock's lips. Who didn't kiss back, but John smiled and took his hand instead, kissed his palm and cupped his own face with Sherlock's hand for a moment, until he deposited it onto the duvet. "Sleep", he said, but Sherlock held onto his fingers and drew him down, not for a kiss, not yet, but to invite him in and down and under the covers. John withdrew, and Sherlock thought he'd overplayed his hand, but John shed his jeans and his jumper and slipped into bed with him, settled into Sherlock's embrace and let himself be held, silently, and with London whirling into night around them, they fell asleep, wordless, curled tightly into each other.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, it was to John drooling on his pillow next to him, still sound asleep, and this time, Sherlock didn't resist. He leaned over and kissed his nose, deeply satisfied when it did indeed crinkle. John snuffled and rubbed his nose, and then his eyes flew open. "Good morning", Sherlock said, startled by his own voice, drew back, but was rewarded by the look of sheer joy on John's face. "I missed you", John whispered, "I missed you so much."

 

Breakfast was almost ready when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom dressed in his favourite post-case lounging clothes, a concession to how things should get back to normal now, to laughter and fun and love. Being around John still felt weird though. There was something about him, a nervous energy, anticipation maybe, possibly dread, visible in abrupt movements and aborted looks and a humourless smile. Sherlock stood next to him for a moment, about to drag him into a hug, but he would have had to physically stop him and hold him while he carried things to the kitchen table, and he didn't dare. Especially when he did look up at him, brow creased and - worry. That was it. John was worried. Wasn't it all fine now? Wasn't it? Sherlock felt panic well up in him yet again, and he said "John", and that was enough for John to stop what he was doing for a moment and cross the distance between them and throw himself at Sherlock, who slung his robe around him and kissed him, tasting toothpaste and tea and John. John, who pushed him away half-heartedly with a firm hand on his hip bone and a whispered: "Let me just finish this, love."  
  
"You bought flowers", Sherlock observed, noticing the small bouquet on the table. "Inspired by a certain Kensington flat?"  
  
John laughed. "Yes and no."  
  
"And strawberries. And my favourite jam. The one you say has too much sugar."  
  
"It does have too much sugar."  
  
"John?"  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"What-"  
  
"Sit down and eat your jam", John said firmly, half scowling, half smiling, and Sherlock smiled.

  
John didn't eat. Well, to be precise, he ate more than Sherlock, always did, but he picked at his food and shot glances at Sherlock, who found he quickly lost his appetite.  
  
"Do we need to talk?" Sherlock said finally.  
  
"No", John said quickly. "Yes. Maybe. But first, you need to eat."  
  
"I can't eat when you look at me like that."  
  
"I can't eat when you don't eat."  
  
"I never eat, that never seemed to bother you."  
  
"It secretly bothered me."  
  
"Nope. It didn't."  
  
"No, it didn't", John admitted and laughed. "And that's not it. Of course that's not it. So. Yes. Talk. Well." His hand, Sherlock noticed, went to his pocket. His phone? Did he expect a call?  
  
"Don't worry", John continued. "It's not about the case. Or, well, yes, it is. Let me just say this: I'm sorry. I was scared and hurt and lashed out. I tend to do that, and it's wrong. I know that. I promise I'll work on it."  
  
"I'm not-"  
  
"No, let me finish. Please. Promise you won't interrupt. Will you?"  
  
Even though he knew it wasn't possible, Sherlock thought his brain was devoid of all blood, his skin prickled. Was John leaving him?  
  
"Promise, Sherlock."  
  
"I promise", Sherlock managed.  
  
"Don't look so afraid. That scares me. Look. Sherlock." John dropped his gaze and licked his lips, and then his eyes caught Sherlock's again, and Sherlock thought if there was still blood in his brain, it evaporated right now. "You're my best friend. No. Don't say anything. You promised. You're my best friend. And my lover. My partner. I love you. I'm so, so in love with you. I want you to know that. I know you know, please, let me finish. I need to say this." He licked his lips again, gathering courage.  
"You've been my best man for as long as I've known you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want that, I don't know about you, but I want that. You'll probably say it's madness, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. I say it's optimism. I want to be that person, someone who puts trusts in others and who... who trusts. And this is not because we fought. It is not.  
"I know this is against everything you stand for, reason, objectivity, that you don't believe in this. But I want to show the entire world that I managed to catch the most wonderful person on this planet. And we actually can now. So. Sherlock. Please marry me."  
  
Not his phone, Sherlock saw. A ring. Plain, simple, silver? Had to be silver. Something plain and sturdy to withstand experiments. Suitable for a soldier's fiancé. Fiancé. He was engaged now. He was about to marry. Marry John.  
  
"It's your turn to say something now", John said. Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words would come. "You can nod. Or shake your head. I'd prefer a nod though."  
  
Sherlock looked down at his hands, open in front of him on his lap, palms up as if letting go, or as in pleading. "I-" he started, but that wasn't a good start. "You-" Not a good start either. He felt John's gaze on him, but he chose to ignore that.  
  
"Did I manage to break your brain again?" John joked weakly, and when Sherlock did look up at that, he noticed the resigned smile he knew so well and didn't want to see on his lover. He clasped his hands and wrung them, just once.  
  
"No", he said. "No. I can't. And you shouldn't." He searched John's face when he said it, saw it fall. "I'll make you unhappy. I know that now. I'll never be what you wanted. I'll always be this. Unfit for human company, unable to maintain a relationship. I'm a horrible friend and a worse boyfriend. I constantly hurt you and disappoint you, and that won't change because what irritates you is so deeply ingrained in me that I can't, I can't for the life of me get it out of me. You deserve so much more, happiness, love, laughter - not the sulking sociopath I am. So. No. My answer is no."  
  
That was it, Sherlock thought. The end of it all, the end of their life together. But then, the end had already begun during that night in Wales. "Thank you", he whispered, almost inaudibly. "Thank you. I never thought I'd ever experience what we had."  
  
He got up, unable to be close to John or to food, about to be sick. John's hand caught his arm and held him back. For a moment, Sherlock struggled, but then he turned to face John. John, who held his arm with bruising strength but threaded the other around his waist, drawing him into a hug he couldn't escape without using considerable force. Letting go of his arm, his grip on his waist secure, John cupped one hand around Sherlock's face so gently he almost didn't feel it, just felt the warmth seep into him, felt being tugged around until his eyes met John's.  
  
"Listen to me", John said. "Listen. I know who you are. I know what you are. Being with you isn't easy. No. Of course it's not. Being with me isn't easy either. But I love who you are, and what you are, even though you drive me up the wall all the time. I want you to know that whatever you do, and even when I'm mad at you, I love you and I want you. I like who you are. And for fuck's sake, you're not a sociopath. Sherlock. You're abrasive, rude, unthinkingly cruel sometimes, not because you want to be, but because you are who you are. I want that cranky, cruel, mean person beside me all my life. I want to wake up next to that loving, incredibly affectionate, ridiculously thin-skinned and insecure, empathic smart-ass all my life. Please. Sherlock. Marry me."  
  
"You deserve so much better", Sherlock said. "So much more."  
  
John laughed. "I don't think I could survive more."  
  
They stood like that, John linking their bodies with a grip so tight Sherlock didn't know if he was being held or restrained, while his other hand smoothed hair back from his temple. John searched Sherlock's face, increasingly desperate.  
  
"Look at me", John said. "Look at me and tell me you don't want to marry me because you don't love me enough. Tell me that, and I won't ask again, ever."  
  
"I love you more than life", Sherlock choked. "More than anything."  
  
John dropped his hand and let go of Sherlock in a sudden burst of activity that startled Sherlock. He dug in his pocket for the box with the ring and shoved it into Sherlock's hands. "Deduce", he said, and sat down at the table.  
  
If there was one thing, Sherlock thought, he couldn't resist, then it was deductions. The box immediately jumped at him, shoved meaning into his mind. Irrefutable truth.  
  
"You spent a lot of thought on this", Sherlock began. "You bought it some time ago, the box is scuffed, not a lot, but not brand new. The stamp on the bottom shows a shop in Prague. When were you in Prague? When we were on the Milford case last month. When you came back from a shopping trip and looked so smug, was that it? Ah. Of course. But you put it back into your coat pocket with your keys and your phone again and again. Why? Because you had doubts? No, you took the ring out of its case many times, the felt is worn and shiny. You rolled it between your fingers and kept it in the palm of your hands, relishing its touch and imagining how it would look like when... You put it off like a good cigar at the end of the day." A look at John's face, turned towards him, told him he was right. "You knew exactly what I would like, even though you've never seen me with a ring. I'm sure if I were to put it on..."  
  
"Marry me, Sherlock", John said, and the pleading had fallen away, had become a statement. He sat up very straight, met his gaze, assured and confident. He had nothing to lose and knew it. "This is the third time. I won't ask another time."  
  
Sherlock exhaled, and, as usual, anything that had any significance happened on an exhalation. When his breath left him, doubt left him. For a moment, the world became crystal clear, its workings no longer complicated and daunting. He could see it all, really, could see where they might go from here. He noticed he hadn't taken a breath and stared at the ceiling for some time when his lungs clamoured for air. He breathed in and breathed out, and when he breathed out, he said: "Yes. God, yes."  
  
John jumped up, toppling his chair and not caring, pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace and kissed every available surface, whispering yes into his skin and then some more and Sherlock kissed him back, laughing, or maybe crying a little, but that was okay.  
  
John stilled, pulled back for a moment, licked his lips that were moist from kissing, and Sherlock thought his heart was going to stop. "I'm going to marry you", John whispered, regarded Sherlock as though seeing him for the first time, as if everything had turned new and exciting, which, of course, it had. "I'm going to marry you", he said, louder this time, and his face lit up with joy and astonishment so raw Sherlock felt it like a punch to the gut. "Yes", he whispered and bowed down to gently kiss his brow.  
  
"I'm scared", John whispered against Sherlock's throat. "And happy. This is it, right? There's no denying."  
  
"No. There isn't", Sherlock said, and held him even closer.


	9. Chapter 9

"There's one thing I'm going to miss", Sherlock said into the bristle of hair against his cheek, warm and damp with sweat.  
  
"Hm", said John, his arm around Sherlock's waist tightening briefly, attesting he wasn't yet entirely gone in post-coital bliss.  
  
"You calling me your boyfriend."  
  
John snorted.  
  
"Husband sounds better", Sherlock admitted. "But I've waited so long for that one word. Never thought the other would come. Just that one word."  
  
"You'll always be my boyfriend", John promised, nudging him gently. There was a pause, and Sherlock thought that if he'd die now, it'd be alright. The lassitude was more than the usual calm that came with good sex and John content in his arms. Right here and now, he didn't have a care in the world. He dove into that sensation, revelled in it really because he knew, down to his core, that this wouldn't last. Somehow, he'd managed to convince John he was worth falling in love with, but he had read the statistics and had read papers on hormonal flow during those first months of a relationship, and he knew once the first phase of being madly in love had passed, John would start noticing. In fact, he already had, and it was clear that only his brief absence and their quarrel had spurred the proposal.  
Sherlock had half a mind to just leave it like that, though. Once married, it'd be harder for John to get rid of him. He couldn't simply walk out on him anymore once they were married. But then, of course... Of course John deserved someone who was good for him, someone he would stay with for the rest of his life. Time and again, Sherlock had proven that he wasn't someone you fell in love with and that he wasn't good for John. And so, he relished this moment because he knew with absolute certainty that it could never last, would never come back. It was all downhill from here.

John, maybe not totally oblivious, started to say something and took several false starts, then said: "It's just that, you know, it's that I want you to be mine. Just mine. I want you to wear my ring to remind you that whatever happens, I'm with you."  
  
"I know that", Sherlock blurted, and he realized he did only when he heard himself say it.  
  
John picked up Sherlock's hand where it lay on his chest and wove his fingers through Sherlock's. "I want you to have tangible proof."  
  
"I believe there's enough tangible proof in this room and, if we're honest about it and look hard enough, most surfaces in this flat."  
  
"That's sex, Sherlock. People have sex for any number of reasons."  
  
"I'm not all people, John."  
  
That gave John pause, and he kissed Sherlock's fingers thoughtfully, one by one. "No", he said. "You're really not." When he had reached the thumb, he added: "Okay. Then how about this: I want you to have tangible proof you can actually take somewhere."  
  
"Well, you know, I could take-"  
  
"No", John interrupted quickly, "you really couldn't. And shouldn't. Don't."  
  
"But it'd be-"  
  
"Sherlock. No."  
  
"But I carry that around in my-"  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"-testicles anyway. And yours too, after we-"  
  
"Sherlock, stop it!"  
  
"- just imagine how many people run around with tangible-"  
  
This time, John hit him, playfully, but with considerable force, and Sherlock gave a surprised "oof" and shoved at him, and two seconds later, Sherlock struggled in John's grip, pinned to the bed and laughing while John grinned at him and tried to kiss him. "You're a bad man", John laughed, and Sherlock growled and managed to flip him on his back, which he knew only worked because John allowed it, and a moment later, they rolled around on the bed like overgrown puppies, breathless and trading control back and forth thought until Sherlock stilled, propped up on his elbows with John solid underneath him, and he searched John's face. This was the man who'd given him the greatest gift in the world, the rest of his life. He'd have to make sure it was a happy one. What a daunting task. He'd start by kissing him, Sherlock decided. Playfully at first, but then the kiss turned deep and passionate and John scrambled closer in a quest for contact.

"Why did we even dress", John breathed and slid a hand into Sherlock's pants, shoved them off his hips and let Sherlock deal with the rest while he rid himself of his own T-shirt and boxers, desperately trying to keep contact or at least minimize their downtime. John dragged Sherlock down with him again and buried both hands in Sherlock's curls while Sherlock's hand explored the soft skin above his hips and the curve of bone, so solid and strong underneath the skin, and then down, down to where soft skin gave way to coarse hair. Of course he was hard. John smiled against Sherlock's lips. "I'm not that old", he murmured, and Sherlock shut him up effectively with a sharp pull that left him gasping. John's hips rocked against Sherlock's, but Sherlock explored the curve of his butt and his thighs and the inside where the skin was unexpectedly soft and warm. He skipped his cock, stroked him anywhere but there. With both hands, John pulled him close and took his mouth with bruising intensity, and for a moment, Sherlock abandoned his exploration and cupped his head, held him in place to kiss him back the way he wanted, deep and filthy and wet and messy. John withdrew, but it wasn't rejection, he arched his back with a low gasp and Sherlock kissed his throat and the place where neck and shoulder meet, licked and bit and only just resisted to suck a mark. Encircled by John's arms and their legs intertwined, all the finesse he was still capable of was to lick his hand and slick them both. John gasped at the touch but didn't come, not yet, dug his fingers into Sherlock's back and pressed him closer with an anguished curse between clenched teeth. Sherlock was so flush against him it was enough to hold on and move with John, John whose breath came rough and hot against his collarbone in rhythm with his thrusts. No taking it slow this time, John dug into his back and pulled him impossibly close, and Sherlock thrust harder and faster against the slide of their sweat-slicked skin, and then John bit down on Sherlock's shoulder with a stifled cry and came into the tight space between them, and the sudden wetness and the warmth and John's desperate thrusts as he spent himself against Sherlock pushed him over the edge. He came with a wordless shout while John strained to pull him ever closer and ride the aftershocks for as long as he could.

He let himself collapse on John's chest and breathed with him. John pressed a kiss on the Sherlock's temple, the only part he could reach without moving. Moving meant cleaning up, Sherlock thought, which they would have to soon anyway. But obviously, John wanted to stay like that, and then Sherlock did, too, his arm around John's waist tightening its hold. Where the melancholia came from that suddenly gripped him even while he listened to John's steady heartbeat, he couldn't say.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John slept, tucked into Sherlock's arm, limp and snoring softly. His fiancé. Sherlock's heart swelled at that, and he leaned over and kissed his nose, which crinkled. His scent was a mix of tea and jam and sweat and sex and John. He smelled like home. "I can be a good man, I can change", he promised, just a whisper against John's skin. "I can be anything for you. I'll figure it out. How to be what you want." He screwed his eyes shut and tried to swallow the helpless dread, but it turned into a sharp, jagged thing in his stomach.

"Hey." John stretched lazily and touched his nose to Sherlock's. "We should fight more often", he said, "The make-up sex is great." With a brief kiss, he disentangled himself and stood up. "Second breakfast? I'm starving."  
Sherlock would never know if he had made the decision right then, or if that had come later. He would always remember that he said: "Sure! I'll pop down to that bakery you like." John's answering smile had been so innocent and bright - later, Sherlock concluded that at this point, neither of them knew.

At first, he did go into the direction of the bakery, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his collar turned up. But somewhere, he must have taken a wrong turn, or taken the wrong tube, because he found himself at Bart's. Picking the lock on the morphine locker was laughably easy. He swept the vials into his coat pocket and didn't bother to lock the door after him. By then, he knew exactly where he was going. As his consciousness faded, he spent his last moments thinking that it was here it had all begun, right here, in his old lab. How fitting that this was where it ended.

 

***

His first indication that it hadn't after all was pressure on his chest and John's terrified voice, telling him to breathe, which was so comically cliché he would have laughed if he hadn't been too busy dying.

***

The second indication was light beyond his eyelids, and moving shapes. Angry voices, arguing. John and Mycroft. John using his quiet not-in-front-of-the-children-voice, Mycroft loud and droning and not caring who heard. Sherlock felt a pang of regret, but didn't know what for.  
Someone held his hand. Couldn't be his brother or John, they sounded too far away, and their voices were receding. With great effort, Sherlock forced his eyes to open. Molly. She looked down at him and smiled when she saw he was awake, but her eyes were brimming with tears. Without a word, she squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

 ***

"Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you miscalculated", Mycroft said before Sherlock had even acknowledged his presence by opening his eyes. Of course he had known he was awake. "No. Of course not. But why now, Sherlock? You have everything you could have ever wanted, had you known it existed."  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. Even if he had wanted to talk, the oxygen mask would have made it hard, and he found he couldn't be bothered.  
  
"But that's just the point, isn't it. It's too good to be true. You finally found someone who loves you for what you are, and you reject it. You've always had a penchant for drama."  
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared at Mycroft.  
  
"Oh. I see. He doesn't love you for what you are after all, you think, and now you feel betrayed. You think you need to change, and you know you can't. Is that it? Ah. Yes. That's it. Well", he said and stood, "I'll let you two figure that out then. Good night. Try not to OD before John gets here. Poor man sprained his back saving your life."

 

 ***

"Hey."  
  
Sherlock blinked at John, the oxygen mask still in the way. That was annoying. Didn't they trust him to breathe on his own? They must have, otherwise, he'd still be intubated. His hand went to the mask and he tried to wrench it from his face, but it was stuck.  
  
"No, let me."  
  
John fumbled with the mask and managed to remove it.  
  
"Is it true?" Sherlock croaked, his voice rough with disuse. "That you sprained your back."  
  
"John laughed. "Yes. Well. Did Mycroft tell you that? I'm out of practise."  
  
"Sorry about that", Sherlock said.  
  
John hung his head, avoided Sherlock's eyes. "Don't be. Please. Sherlock."  
  
"John, I..."  
  
"Sherlock", he said urgently, "Do you want us to break up? Do you want to go back to - before? I think we can, we're both adults, we're both smart and sensible people, we can just go back to being very best friends and we-"  
  
"No! No. God, no."  
  
"We don't have to get married. I just thought. I thought." John licked his lips and pressed them together, tilting his head at Sherlock. "I thought it'd make you better. More confident. That you'd see I want you to be who you are. With all your - special effects." He made an expansive gesture that encompassed all of Sherlock. "But I failed miserably at that, didn't I."  
  
"Special effects."  
  
"Yes. You know. Can't really call them faults. Because they're you. And I love you."  
  
For a very long time, Sherlock looked at his hands that were newly riddled with the tell-tale punctures of IVs. Studied them to avoid having to answer. If there had been a question at all. He was about to answer when a nurse sailed in and towered menacingly in front of John, who didn't even get up. "Visiting hours are over, sir", she announced with false cheer.  
  
"Not for family", John smiled, and Sherlock snorted, because he knew that smile too well and already felt sorry for the nurse.  
  
"He's my fiancé", Sherlock heard himself say. "He stays."  
  
John stood now, between Sherlock and the nurse, and even though the nurse probably had ten centimetres and twenty kilos on him, he managed to look vastly more dangerous, something compact and strong protecting his mate. "You", he hissed, "So quick to judge. Unable to entertain even the notion that we-"  
  
"I apologize, sir, I-"  
  
"Go", John growled.  
  
Sherlock chuckled because, in fact, the nurse had long since relented, and calmly explaining that they were engaged would have sufficed. But it was so entertaining to see John drive her off and then return to his side, triumphant.

"So", John said, reclaiming his seat next to Sherlock's bed. "That's done then."  
  
"Yes. It is", Sherlock said, to both.  
  
John observed him carefully but was clearly thinking of something else already. He stooped down and fetched something from his bag. "You know, I think there's someone you should meet."  
  
"Someone?"  
  
"Yeah. I think you forgot about him."  
  
"I rarely forget anything."  
  
"You did in this case. May I-", John asked, indicating Sherlock's bed. Sherlock scooted to the side to make space for John, and John adjusted the head rest until they could both sit and look at the ledger John had produced. It was a thick, black book, and if not for the colour, it could have been a photo album. John cradled it to his chest. "You're about to meet someone I love more than life. Ready?"  
  
"No", Sherlock said with absolute honesty and no less dread.  
  
John laughed and opened the ledger, and Sherlock saw it was, indeed, a photo album, a scrap book really, with newspaper cuttings and photos and short texts in John's shoddy script. "Do you remember this one?"  
  
"How could I forget. That's the pink lady."  
  
"When we first met."  
  
"What's this here?"  
  
"Oh. That's the receipt for the coffee I had with Mike at the park. When I told him I'm looking for a flat."  
  
"You kept that."  
  
"Of course. And do you remember this?"  
  
"When you went to that useless conference in Dublin without me. You copied my texts?"  
  
"In hindsight, I was this close to telling you I love you right then and there. Oh, and this one."  
  
"Our disastrous trip to Brighton. Never going there again."  
  
"Never say never, love. Maybe we should get married there."  
  
"Over my dead body."  
  
John slung an arm around him, drawing him close, the scrap book in his lap. Sherlock settled in a little lower, sprawled against his chest so he could nudge his head into the nook between shoulder and chin. "Here. Christ, I was so mad at you when I wrote that. After I left the flat, remember."  
  
"But you kept the clippings. And that photo. Really?"  
  
"Of course I did. Ha, look, this is you with the hat. I totally forgot about the bail, look, there's the receipt. I did start it as a ledger, but then it turned-"  
  
"John?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Apart from Brighton, where would you like to get married?"  
  
John pressed a kiss into Sherlock's curls and huffed. "Doesn't matter, as long as it's with you." His lips against Sherlock's temple, he whispered: "Just don't ever go away. You hear me. It would kill me. Don't ever." There was nothing Sherlock could say to that, he had no words to explain what had killed him even before he had overdosed.

For the better part of an hour, they looked through the ledger and shared stories, and Sherlock settled into John's embrace, listening to John recount how they'd solved crimes and fought about the laundry and the dishes. Even though he had probably slept a lot, and, well, had been unconscious, of course - he didn't even know what day it was and how long he'd been here - he was tired to his core. Being here, like this, was almost perfect, and he thought he could just sleep some more, snuggled against John, and wake up rested. But then, it wasn't. It was still a hospital bed and a hospital room, and John would have to leave at some point, wouldn't he? Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. He jumped up and ignored both his body's protests at the sudden change of posture and John's surprised shout and shuffled over to the dresser where he hoped they'd put his clothes. They had, and he started dressing while John looked on in exasperation.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Going home", Sherlock said.  
  
"Home."  
  
"That'd be 221b Baker Street if I'm not mistaken. Or how long have I been-"  
  
"Sherlock. You went into respiratory arrest yesterday."  
  
"I'm well aware of that", he said and slung the scarf around his neck. "Come on, John. Bust me out."  
  
"They'll want to evaluate you, seriously, that was a suicide attempt, Sherlock, you-"  
  
"Attempt. Yes. Meaning I'm still alive, and I can go home."  
  
"And then there's the minor issue of misuse of drugs and, oh, of course, theft-"  
  
"You say it yourself, a minor issue. I'm sure Mycroft can-"  
  
At that, John launched himself at him and pulled him into a fierce hug that very nearly cracked his ribs. "I love you so much, you lunatic. Yes. Let's go home."


	11. Chapter 11

What do we do", Mycroft said. John looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, but he dropped his gaze when he saw Mycroft, for once, was actually asking for his advice.

"I don't know", John admitted.

"There will be no investigation."

"Thank you."

"This cannot happen again."

"No."

"Do you think it will?"

"No",  John said, a moment too late.

"I see." Mycroft speared a leaf with the point of his umbrella. Hyde Park, John thought. Mycroft's idea of a perfect place for a covert meeting.

"I understand", Mycroft continued, "That there will be a happy announcement. Let me be the first to congratulate." With that, he produced a folded sheet of paper and presented it to John.

"What's this?"

"Orders. Increased surveillance. As you are unfit to keep tabs on him, I will."

"Why, that is wonderful. Exactly what we wanted. Thank you."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"The last thing he needs is a shorter leash."

"The last thing I need is a dead brother."

"And you think I need-" John took a menacing step towards Mycroft but then dropped his stance. "You know what? I'm going home." He turned and left and was already a few paces away when Mycroft added: "Don't bother telling me where you are going, John. I'll know."

 

John collected himself before taking the stairs to their flat. On the way back, he'd made up his mind: Sherlock didn't have to know about this. And so he entered the flat with a sunny disposition and a bright smile Sherlock immediately saw through.

"Oh. I take it that went well then", Sherlock said and placed the petri dish he'd been working with on the kitchen counter. How he managed to look great with safety glasses was one of the world's major miracles, John thought, and he smiled before reality caught up with him and he remembered the paper in his coat pocket.

"Outstanding."

"Anything I should know?"

"They won't press charges, we're eternally indebted, I'm on probation. That's it", John lied and busied himself disposing of boots and jacket. Sherlock didn't answer, he took off his glasses and folded his heavy apron, avoiding John's eyes.

"Okay", John said, and sighed. "That's not all. He also increased surveillance."

"I know", Sherlock smiled. "I noticed that already."

"It's his engagement gift", John said through clenched teeth, his anger finally catching up with him.

"Tell him, next time you see him, that as our wedding gift, I expect far more than this obvious waste of taxes. Considering the spend, I'd say a nice holiday home in Sussex would be more than suitable."

"Oh Sherlock", John choked and drew him into a hug.

"I'm sorry", Sherlock whispered against the shell of John's ear.

John pressed Sherlock's head against his neck, guarding him from the world. "Don't. Don't. Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed against his neck. "I'm an idiot."

John groaned and drew back so he could nuzzle his hair. "Yes. You are an idiot", he said and pressed a kiss on his temple. "And a smart ass." Another kiss down his jawbone. "And a show-off" - the pulse point under his jaw  - "and mean" - his neck, Sherlock's head titled so John could kiss down the length of it - "let's not forget stupid" - the hollow above his collar bone - "and unfit for human company" - he had to open his shirt buttons now but was rewarded by a dusting of coarse hair and Sherlock's bitten off gasp as he kissed down his breast bone - "and I'm sure I'll find someone so much better" - his trousers were easy, pyjama bottoms, they slid off him and to the ground, pooling around his ankles as John licked a wet stripe down his middle line to his erection - "so much more worthy of" - he took him into his mouth, just once, as deep as he could, and above him, Sherlock swore and scrambled for purchase - "my attention." John grinned at Sherlock who towered above him and fought for control and clearly, clearly lost. "Think about it", he whispered, "think about how totally unworthy you are of what I'm about to do to you today and tomorrow and the rest of our lives, and maybe, in ten years, you'll finally come to the obvious conclusion." He ran his hands down Sherlock's spine, wrapped him in his arms and held him close, breathing against Sherlock's abdomen when he said: "That you're are worth everything and more, more than I could ever give you."  
"John", Sherlock gasped, trying to push him off him half-heartedly and failing, because John did that thing with his tongue, something one of his girlfriends had done and which he had spent months perfecting now and which reduced Sherlock to a quivering, boneless mass sprawled on the floor. He tried, tried to hold out but couldn't, which John, with that small part of him that wasn't entirely occupied by sex, found amusing. "John, they're-" he managed again, but his rhythm had already changed, and he came, there on the kitchen floor, his hands in John's hair and his back arched, and he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Without even catching his breath, Sherlock pounced on him, all but ripped his jumper and jeans off him. "John", he whispered against his ear, and the slide of his lips against his throat made John buck against his fingers where they were buried in John's coarse hair, cupping his erection." There's something you need to know", Sherlock said, and that cruelly cut through the lustful haze. "What", John managed, still very aware of his cock in Sherlock's hand.

"Surveillance", Sherlock whispered. "They're monitoring the kitchen. And the living room."

"Oh", John said, trying to compute. "Oh!"

"The floor should be fine", Sherlock panted, then moved to kiss him deeply. "Or we could move to-"

"Yes. We'll move", John said, the mix of anger and arousal blotting out all conscious thought, and he knew he'd probably regret it later, but right now, this was what he needed. "Kitchen table. Now", he said.

Sherlock was stronger than he looked, but John was still surprised he was able to lift him up and deposit him on the table. Without further ado, he nudged his legs apart and pulled him close, and John closed his legs around Sherlock's waist. So close, and Sherlock kissed him deeply, rocking against him minutely. He was hard again.

"I hate that you can do that", John panted while Sherlock's hands gripped his hips and his mouth explored his neck.

"Do what?"

"Again, already", John managed, arching his back.

"It all depends on the stimulus", Sherlock murmured, his voice impossibly deep. "I always, always want you." He encircled John's erection and worked him slowly, languorously. John swore and grasped for Sherlock, but he batted him away with his free hand without missing a stroke and deposited John's hand on the small of his back. "No. I want to see you. Want to keep my head." He grinned and buried his face against John's neck and whispered: "We'll give them something to watch."

John groaned, and from then on, all he could do was hang on while Sherlock's gaze held him. It seemed to last forever, Sherlock took his time and eased off whenever John felt close, until all that existed was that hand on his cock and Sherlock's tongue in his mouth and the sweat and that friction and just as he thought it couldn't get any better than this, it did, Sherlock whispered: "They'll see you come", and that he did, with a shout and desperately rocking against Sherlock while he spent himself. Sherlock followed almost immediately while John pressed him close and held him up when his legs gave way underneath him. Shuddering like a horse, he buried his face against John's neck and caught his breath. John drew him as close as he could, not out of decency, but to feel him near, feel him soften against his belly.

  
"Thank you", John panted.

"Anytime", Sherlock laughed, holding him close. "You are a madman, you know that?"

John chuckled. "Yes. Yes. I knew that." He kissed Sherlock's long neck. "You made that up, didn't you. The part about them watching."

"Why, no, I didn't. Cameras there, there, and there."

"Oh God", John said and buried his face against Sherlock's neck.

"Not sure if they're active yet. Maybe it's just another empty threat by Mycroft."

"Do they watch the bathroom too?"

"Do I get shower sex if I say yes?"

"You'll get shower sex whatever the answer. Just, uh, give me a minute. Or sixty."

Sherlock smiled, but then stilled. "You distracted me with sex, right?"

"Yes. And from now on, I will always distract you with sex when you say something that's so stupid it doesn't need to be discussed."

"We'll have a lot of sex then."

"Yeah. Better buy a bigger tube of vaseline."

"Sigma sells it in one kilogram cans."

"You're making that up too."

"Where do you think this comes from?"

"You're serious."

"It's cost effective and very pure."

"You have a one kilogram can of lube."

"I use it for other experiments as well."

"I'm an experiment?"

"Of course", Sherlock said and nipped his earlobe. "My favourite. In all the world."

"I'm flattered", John said and closed his legs tighter around Sherlock's waist and settled into his embrace. "Shower can wait, can't it."

"We'll have to burn this table eventually anyway."

"We could put a new one on our wedding registry."

"Now there's a thought." Sherlock raised his voice: "Mycroft. Brother dear. You heard it."

 John barked a laugh and then hid his face against Sherlock, inhaled his scent and pressed a small kiss on his collarbone. "Just the two of us against the world?"

If at all possible, Sherlock pulled him even closer. "Just the two of us against the world."


	12. Chapter 12

It took a week for things to go back to something resembling normal, which was fast considering what had happened, but then, worse had happened to them already and they had survived that, too. Sherlock slept a lot during his first few days back home, usually close to John or sprawled all over him. John left him behind with some reluctance when he went to work, thought about taking him with him, but in the end, he decided he'd have to trust him.

Friends dropped by under some pretence or the other, scrutinized both John and Sherlock and then left, not appeased, but fine for the moment. John felt their distrust acutely, and it hurt, but he understood they worried about his partner. Even though he considered worrying about Sherlock his job, he had to admit he liked their obvious concern and their care. After all, all they did was love someone he loved. He thought if Sherlock only knew, could only see and accept, he wouldn't have done such a thing. And Sherlock wore his ring. That, to John, was one of the major achievements of his entire life.

Sherlock discovered there still was one issue, one small thing, that stood between them without John's knowledge. That John didn't know about it made this thing significant - that much he had learned. Sherlock knew it wasn't something you hid, but there it was, the folder, underneath the floorboard in the bedroom with his emergency cigarettes. He updated the folder regularly with information provided by Mycroft, took it out, flipped through the pages and studied the photographs of the little girl who had grown a bit since he'd last seen her, and tried not to feel regret. He knew it was almost impossible to adopt her, even with Mycroft's help. He knew it would be a bad idea, knew he would hardly make an ideal father. But then, John would. He knew John would. And even though he tried not to, he recalled her clean baby scent and the look on John's face when he'd held her.

Regret, and guilt. If there had been a chance to adopt her, he'd ruined it, he knew that. After what he'd done, he doubted Mycroft would help them adopt the girl. Still. John had to know, didn't he? Was this something you could forgive? That he'd hid this from him? That he'd ruined his chance to have a family? Was this something John could ever forgive?

Sherlock realized he cradled the folder to his chest, and forced himself to put it back, hide it. Close the floorboards. Straighten, brush lint off your knees. Look at your reflection in the mirror, try to see what John sees in you. Love, trust yourself and others.

And then jump.


End file.
